Home
by frozen-delight
Summary: "We are home." The epic love story of Sam, Dean and Baby. Tag for 11x04 "Baby". [Sam&Dean gen with hints of (one-sided) Wincest]


A/N: Written for the lovely (and patient!) bratfarrar, who is always so wonderfully optimistic about the show.

Possibly gratuitous warnings:  
\- Spoilers for all aired episodes.  
\- Unbetaed, apologies for any mistakes.  
\- The usual SPN timeline issues, i.e. I'm ignoring there's a full year between S5/S6 and S7/S8. Furthermore, I'm greatly indebted to the Superwiki for all the additional timeline information, and have accordingly decided to place "The Executioner's Song" in late March 2015.  
\- If Robbie Thompson is allowed to write brotherly Impala schmoop, so am I.

* * *

 **Home**

"Let's go home," Dean says.

"Know what?" Sam replies, patting the Impala's dashboard. "We are home."

As he leans his head back against the blood-spattered window and lets _Night Moves_ wash over him, every aching bone in his body seems to agree, heavy not just with exhaustion but also content. If he were to die this very moment, he can't help but think, that final flashback before all goes black would be nothing but memories of Dean, him and this car.

o0o

Sam's first memory is of the Impala's backseat. He's three, maybe, and he's huddled against Dean. It's dark and Dad's been driving for hours. The tape Dad kept replaying has run out again. Now silence reigns, a sharp-toothed monster, and Sam muffles his sobs in Dean's shoulder, terrified to disturb it.

The rain streaks on the windows slowly disappear behind mist. It's like there's no world outside anymore, nothing, just Dad, and Dean and the car.

Sam has no idea where they're going. Why Dad's always driving. Why they had to leave Mrs. Smith's. She was so nice. She always smiled at Sam, patted his head and gave him a cookie. Like a mom. Sam doesn't understand why Mrs. Smith couldn't be their mom.

"Shhh, Sammy, it's okay," Dean murmurs and cards his fingers through Sam's hair. He sounds so sure and his touch is so gentle that Sam immediately believes him.

He falls asleep, still clutching the thin hem of Dean's coat. Just in case.

o0o

He's nine and Dad's spread out on the backseat, his shirt splashed with blood. _A werewolf did that_ , Sam thinks. There's no comfort in the knowledge. He sneaks a glance at the backseat every other minute. Dad never moves. Sam can't tell if he's even still alive.

Next to him Dean's knuckles are white on the steering wheel. If possible, his face is paler still.

Sam knows for a fact that his brother's never driven before. He's barely tall enough to peek over the dashboard, and he has to stretch his legs to reach the gas pedal, but somehow he races them towards the ER without a hitch, never veering out of his lane.

"Is he still—?" Dean asks at increasingly shorter intervals. _Breathing? Alive?_ He never finishes the question.

"Yes," Sam answers infallibly each time.

o0o

He's thirteen and staring moodily at the rapid-passing highway lines like they're the heavy, stifling chain yanking on the neck of the whole universe. He stopped paying attention to Dad's wearisome sermon on all the ways Sam managed to mess up his very first hunt ten miles ago.

He clenches his fists and focuses on the anger boiling low in his gut. He's never felt so angry before.

He's angry at Dad. For dragging them into this life. For using Dean as bait. For not being there at the appointed time.

He's angry at Dean. For allowing Dad to use him as bait. For getting hurt. For riding shot-gun next to Dad now like nothing happened. Like Dad's his hero. Like Dad's the only person in the universe that matters.

He's angry at himself. For not being prepared for the reality of hunting. For panicking. For putting Dean in danger, letting him get hurt. For thinking, _I don't want this_.

As if he could sense Sam's thoughts Dean twists around in his seat. His hand finds Sam's shoulder and squeezes it. _You did good, kiddo_. Dean doesn't say the words, but Sam can hear them reverberate on his skin.

"Son, didn't I tell you to do some research on the deaths in Utah?" Dad grunts, like he can't bear not being the focus of Dean's attention for just one damn minute. Sam glares at the back of his father's head, counts the spatters of blood there with vicious satisfaction. Self-righteous bastard.

"Yes, sir." Dean swivels back to the front and opens the newspaper resting in his lap, but not before shooting Sam a conspiratorial wink. And for the rest of the drive Dean's freckled neck seems to keep up a secret conversation which Sam alone is privy to.

Just then all is right in Sam's world. Or as right as things can be, anyway, in a world where you've got a psychopathic father and are searching out things that want to kill you or eat you for a living.

o0o

He's fifteen and he's sitting in the driver's seat. Figuring out what to do with the steering wheel is harder than it looks. Dean's warm fingers keep brushing his as he helps Sam steer the car back on the right lane. He teases, _Hey, no need to insult this classy lady, she's not a walrus, she doesn't need the entire road_. Threatens, _Watch it, Samuel. If that side mirror comes off, I'll kill you and your kids and your grandkids, make no mistake_.

Eventually, Sam gets the knack of it. They speed along the highway with their windows rolled down. A cool breeze fans their necks as they belt out _King of the Road_ , and every breath Sam takes tastes like freedom.

Dean whoops in delight and turns to grin at him, looking so proud, so alive, so present that it knocks the breath out of Sam's chest.

His jaw hurts, suddenly, from how hard he's smiling back. He thinks, just for a moment, that Dean is beautiful.

o0o

He's eighteen and he's never heard Dean close the door on the driver's side with so much hesitancy. As always in their dismal young lives, the road is dark and lonely. But it's no match for the desolate look in Dean's eyes when he turns around to face him.

Dean gives him a watery smile. Thumps him on the shoulder with false bravado. Says, "Remember what I taught you. Remember what Dad taught you. Salt the windows and doors. Don't get complacent, kiddo."

Sam doesn't say anything. If he opened his mouth, he'd inevitably start screaming. _Why can't you be happy for me? Why can't you be proud? Why are you always taking Dad's side? Didn't you want me to get out?_

Instead, he moves forward to pull Dean into a quick hug.

Somehow, his movement takes Dean by surprise—and his big brother, Dad's perfect little soldier, a better hunter than Sam could ever have hoped to be, _Dean of all people_ stumbles backwards, caught off balance in a way Sam's never witnessed during one of their many (too many) face-offs with snarling, wide-fanged monsters. Together they tumble onto the hood of the Impala. The scent of gun oil wafts up Sam's nostrils, intermingled with leather. He buries his face in Dean's neck and inhales. For just a moment, he feels at peace. He wants to hold on and never let go. Wants to beg, _Come with me. Please_.

Instead, he gets on the bus and doesn't look back.

Later he discovers a thick envelope with money at the bottom of his duffel. Only then does he understand that Dean always wanted him to get out.

o0o

He's twenty-two and riding shot-gun next to his brother for the first time in four years. Dean's being his usual obnoxious self, playing the same obnoxious tunes, and Sam turns his head away in disgust.

There are subtle changes to the Impala, the loving neatness of the interior, the chaos in the weapons cache. This is Dean's car now, Sam can tell.

Fleetingly he wonders if Dean accepted it like a precious gift or a careless goodbye from their ever absent father.

He didn't mean to close his eyes, but when he opens them again, they're already past Sacramento. He feels more well-rested than he has in weeks. For once, no images of Jess strung up on the ceiling, blood dripping from her white night-gown cling to the back of his eyelids.

Apparently, there's still nothing in the world which makes him feel as safe as the presence of his big brother and the steady purr of the Impala's engine.

Thirty-six hours later, he's no longer sure that's a bad thing.

o0o

He's twenty-three and Dean's rebuilding the Impala from scratch. Sam wants to kick in every square of metal Dean fixed, wants to dent the hood with his fists until Dean gives in and finally talks to him about Dad.

But he doesn't, because he for one is willing to face what they've lost. Knows there's nothing else he could bear to lose.

o0o

He's twenty-six and carefully approaches his brother, who's leaning against the car in a manner that screams _casual_ too loudly to be even a little convincing. His face blank, Dean pulls out Ruby's knife.

No matter how often Sam has told himself in the past weeks that this needs to happen, that he deserves it, Sam can't help himself—he flinches.

But then Dean holds it out to him, handle first.

Sam doesn't want to ask, but he has to. "What made you change your mind?"

"Maybe we are each other's Achilles heel," Dean tells him. "Maybe they'll find a way to use us against each other, I don't know. I just know we're all we've got. More than that. We keep each other human."

When he climbs in beside his brother, Sam doesn't think of a woman's hoarse shrieks in the trunk of the car, begging for her life, pleading with him as he drains her of every single drop of blood pumping through her veins. No, he thinks of Dean drumming on the steering wheel, singing along to _Fire of Unknown Origin_ , a stupid grin on his face that makes him look like six, tops.

The memory tastes like mercy.

o0o

He's twenty-seven and his fists move without his volition, determined to break every bone in Dean's body.

Dean can barely hold himself upright anymore where Sam—no, _Lucifer_ , the difference still matters, it has to—has him pressed up against the side of the car. His face is swollen and bloody and maybe for the first time in his life Dean looks downright ugly. But with stubborn determination he repeats the words, "I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you," and that's still the most beautiful thing Sam has ever heard.

He catches sight of the green army man stuck in the car's ashtray. Green like Dean's eyes. There, always there, even after everything that happened. Just like Dean.

He thinks, _I love you. I love you. I love you_.

Before he knows it, his fists have stopped moving.

o0o

He's twenty-nine and utterly alone, except for a horribly dented car. He fixes it up and drives. Drives and drives.

Until he hits a dog.

o0o

He's thirty-one and his arms are heavy, heavy with the weight of Dean's lifeless body. As gently as he can, he lays his brother down on the backseat.

He's slept there countless nights, when they got lost, when they couldn't spare money for a motel, when they had a fight. He knows how cramped it is.

Yet now, even with his legs bent to fit in, Dean looks small somehow.

It's a long time before the mist in front of Sam's eyes lifts enough for him to drive.

o0o

He's thirty-one and Dean says, "I'm scared, Sam."

Sam doesn't think he's ever heard Dean confess that much. He wants to wrap Dean up in his arms and tell him that it's gonna be okay, but not even he can muster up that much optimism.

They walk back to the car in silence. Sam opens the trunk and takes out several knives and guns, just to be prepared. Not that he thinks he could use them on Dean, if—if. When he slams it closed and steps away, he spots Dean running a hand over the roof of the car. Briefly Dean bends forwards and rests his head against the metal. In the shadows, Sam can't make out his profile. He's unspeakably grateful for it.

His eyes rooted to a spot just over Sam's shoulder, Dean hands him the keys. "You should take these."

Sam swallows hard as he closes his fingers around them. They're sharper and colder than ice.

After what feels like an eternity of waiting and listening to his brother getting thrown around the barn, he finally stumbles back to the Impala, Dean in his arms, limp and bloody. It almost feels like a déjà vu of that awful night nine months ago. But the sky is dawning and the roof of the car glistens in welcome.

o0o

He's thirty-two, there's black smoke everywhere and he's about to die. But he's in the Impala, clutching the collar of Dean's shirt, the two, no _three_ of them against the world.

There's nowhere else he'd rather be.

o0o

"Wake up, sleeping beauty. We're home."

Reluctantly, Sam opens his eyes and blinks against the bright lights of the bunker's garage assaulting his eyes.

"You let me sleep all the way?"

Dean shrugs. "You looked like you needed it."

"But what about you? You look dead on your feet, man, and not in a sexy way."

Dean's eyes widen comically. "There _is_ a sexy way? Dude, remind me to never check out your porn. Anyway," he adds, knocking their shoulders together, "I'm fit as a fiddle, man, cause unlike some I'm used to getting laid more often than every leap year. Not to mention I don't let puke-colored smoothies suck the life out of me."

"Whatever." Sam smiles and rests his head back against the red-streaked glass panel.

It seems surreal that they scrubbed it clean just two days ago. Dean's surprisingly chipper, considering. Honestly, if Dean had wiped out half of Oregon in response, Sam couldn't really have blamed him.

For some reason Sam doesn't want to leave the car yet, no matter what a battered shape the poor girl is in. Every inch of it still smells like home, even when dressed in blood and glass shards. He's spent most of his life in here, and for once he doesn't look back on it with regret. All that fills his mind is gratitude. _A life well lived_.

He expects Dean to climb out and head inside, but to his surprise Dean doesn't move either.

The corners of Dean's mouth quiver in something that's not quite a smirk, and he's staring straight ahead when he speaks next, all of which is enough to tip Sam off that for once his brother's actually being serious, or as serious as he can be without feeling unnervingly embarrassed by it.

"You, my baby—" Dean caresses the steering wheel with great fondness "—you're family, you know. You're home. You always have been. And now we've got even more—" he gestures at the garage surrounding them "—Cas, our very own batcave. So… what I'm saying, Sam. Our lives suck, always have, and I'm sorry. And now the Darkness is coming and even friggin' ghoulpires are scared and I have no idea what that means and what we're gonna do about it. But Sammy, we've still got each other, and all of this, so… we're kinda damn lucky."

Sam hums softly in agreement. He feels strangely moved and comforted by everything his brother is trying to say, and his eyes prickle dangerously.

To lighten the mood, he answers, "Probably I should thank you every day that you saved hundreds of kittens in a previous life."

"Shut up!" Dean retorts without much bite and pushes open his door.

This time Sam's ready to follow him outside.

* * *

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